Over My Shoulder
by Hardly Here
Summary: Mark's beach is never warm anymore.
1. Chapter 1

Cold. God, it was cold. It was so cold he could barely move. The wind whipped at his sodden clothes, chilling him to the bone. A wave of icy water washed over him, drenching him further.

_How did I get here?_

He forced his bleary eyes open, and found that all he could see was the grayish-blue light of the early morning, just before the sun was about to rise. A shudder wracked his weary body as the wave slid back out to sea, exposing him one again to that relentless wind. There was coarse, gritty sand beneath his cheek, and in his hair, and in his clothes. He found that his breath was coming in small gasps; his nose was all blocked up and stung from the salt water.

Another wave broke over his head and he spluttered weakly for air, but it was soon chased by another, and another; finally he count stand it no more and blackness mercifully took over.

X

Mark was by no means an early rise, but there was just some intuition, some strange feeling in the air which woke him up at near seven in the morning, just as the winter sun's pale light was peeking over the horizon. He simply couldn't get comfortable again, and opted just to go for a walk.

_It's been a long time since you enjoyed a quiet beach sunrise anyway,_ he thought, wincing at the way his back crackled when he stretched.

As soon as he stepped out onto the porch though, he knew what was wrong. There was some filthy urchin washed up on his shore. Nobody came to this beach. There were a mass of rocky outcrops nearby, most of which blocked out the afternoon sun, plus the fact that the beach itself was tiny, really only meant for the two people who had used to live there...

Mark's first instinct was to leave it – he was suspicious of anyone who trespassed on his land and clearly whoever had wanted to get rid of the wretched creature had done a good job of it. Dangerous people were about.

Curiosity got the better of him however, and he found himself kneeling beside the prone figure in the water, studying him carefully. With alarm he noted that the water swirling around him was stained a murky reddish colour which was replaced every time a new wave washed it out to sea. The man's face was nothing like the wretched sea pirate he had imagined either – he had delicate features, had a kind of childlike air to him. He felt an old, almost forgotten wrench in the put of his belly and without hesitation scooped him up and carried him up to his veranda so he could get a better look.

His hair was a muddy blonde tangle, although that was largely due to the grit and salt water caught in it. His face and arms were pretty badly scratched up, like he had been in a struggle. His side was stained a dark red but further inspection showed that nothing serious had been punctured, it was only a flesh wound. As Mark prodded at it carefully, the young man's brow creased into a frown and he arched feebly in pain. The small whimper which escaped his lips stirred that feeling again in Mark, but he forced back the memory. There was no way he was going to go through that again.

A small gust of wind blew past, and Mark noted that the man wasn't shivering, that he seemed to be struggling to breathe. His skin was icy to the touch.

Inside. Now.

Without thinking he stripped the sodden clothes from the man's body and threw them into the bathtub. He then dried him off, did a quick bandaging job on the wound at his side and put him to bed, turning the electric blanket as high as it would go. He regarded the sleeping man with a strange kind of affection, marvelling at how innocent he looked. He looked so relaxed and at peace; his lips were slightly parted and he was so pale... probably from his ordeal but nevertheless, he looked like a little angel.

Mark went through his pockets after that. An old wallet revealed the man's name to be Brian Kendrick, and a now sodden five dollar note showed up too. There was also a key, which Mark pocketed for later. He had just put the man's clothes on to wash when a groan from the bedroom caught his attention. He ran up to find Brian – if that really was his name – beginning to stir... and trembling madly. The angelic air had disappeared now; his looks were troubled and his face was flushed with fever. The covers were scrunched up beneath his chin as he subconsciously clung to something warm and comfortable. Strikingly blue eyes revealed themselves as they fluttered open, and he began to panic.

"Wh-w-where-" he stuttered, beginning to sit up. He realised he was naked, and his eyes widened in fear.

"Don't move, you'll hurt yourself."

"_Who are you?_" Howled Brian, scooting away from the large, rather intimidating man in front of him.

"You washed up on _my_ beach, I brought you back or else you woulda froze-" Mark reached out and caught his arm as he tried to struggle out of bed.

"Stay put, _Brian._"

Brian shrank away at the name, hissing in pain as he twisted against his wound.

"Told you,"

Brian just clutched at his side, not taking that terrified gaze off Mark for a second.

"Stay put." Said Mark, adding a more ominous growl to his voice.

"I can... myself," said Brian in between shivers.

"Ha. You're cold, you're exhausted and your teeth're chattering so loud the neighbours'll complain. Stay put."

Brian looked at him in confusion, but lay back obediently.

Mark cleaned the cut thorough this time, trying his best to ignore the way every muscle in Brian's body tensed against the pain, ignore the small whimper when he covered it with some padding and wound the bandage firmly around his waist. He did however, catch the way he nervously bit his lip after having made a sound. That was something to think on later, when he had recovered.

Touching Brian's slight frame brought more memories, though this little man was fair where his own had been dark. He shook the thought

_Not now._

Although he couldn't stop his hands from lingering a moment more once he had finished.

"You hungry?" asked Mark, eyeing Brian's thin chest rising and falling shallowly. A brief nod, the poor thing was already half asleep.

"It'll be here when you wake up," Said Taker quietly, leaving the younger man to rest.


	2. Chapter 2

**(I'm sorry.)**

**Wowee, didn't think that many people would be interested in Kendrick/Taker! Thanks guys, you make my writing happy! :D**

**X**

Mark busied himself with his usual morning affairs then, making himself a strong cup of coffee and doing a bit of work in his garage. Somewhere along the line, people had found out he was remarkably good at fixing things, and so they would bring him their broken machinery. Thus Mark was able to live fairly comfortably and more importantly, _alone._

When he went in to get a drink though, a series of whimpers from the bedroom caught his attention. Brian had managed to kick the sheets into a tangle around his legs, and his skinny chest rose and fell erratically with each breath. Strands of his hair were plastered to his forehead and neck with perspiration; he was going to seriously hurt himself if he carried on like that, there was no way his body had the strength to cope.

"Wake up," growled Mark, running to his side, "wake up, goddamnit."

He shook the little man by the shoulders, but to no avail. Alarm bells went off in his head though when he felt the skin beneath his hands burning up.

"Wake up." A little louder this time, but still nothing. Brian moaned weakly, and his head lolled to the side like a ragdoll. His eyes were rimmed with red and his face was ashen, covered with an unnatural sheen of sweat.

"Fuck." Mark ran to the bathroom and grabbed a cup, filling it with cold water and splashing it on the young man's face. That always got Glenn up after a night out at the pub.

He perhaps hadn't thought it through as well as he could have. Blue eyes, wild with feverish terror, snapped open and it became clear that they held no recollection of where he was, or what had happened. Panic set in fast as Brian spluttered for air, the cold water bringing back the memory of yesterday. He was drowning, seawater was threatening to fill his lungs and his struggle to stay afloat was growing harder and harder in the sea... the sea of sheets... and blankets...

He realised then where he was, mid-way to clutching at Mark's collar as though it were a lifeline. Their eyes met, and the memories flooded back in. A light blush crept into those too-pale cheeks and he felt back against the pillows.

"Sorry," he croaked. The word ended in a cough, which seemed to sap him of the last of his strength. His arm twitched as though he were about to move it, but exhaustion proved too much for him to even manage that. Mark brushed the damp locks of hair out of his eyes for him, and watched as his eyelids slid shut once again, and his breathing evened out.

There it was once more, that old, familiar feeling. He remembered his own little dark-haired angel, ill and growing weaker by the hour in that very bed while he sat helpless by his side. Someone up there had a funny sense of humour, sending him these delicate creatures. Perhaps it was a second chance...

He noted that he hadn't washed his hands yet, and that parts of Brian's pale flesh were now smeared with black grease from the workshop. The bitter irony of this was not lost on Mark, who hurried to wash up so that he could take care of the boy properly.

Mark set aside the rest of his plans for that day then. Brian slept sporadically, waking every couple of hours with a start. Mark would prop him up with a gentleness which belied his huge physique, and hold a glass of water to his dry, cracked lips. He would then attend to the wound at his side, and finally stroke the young man's hair until he drifted back into his much-needed sleep.

But when Brian buried his face in his pillow half-asleep, a faint smile on his tired features, the gesture was so familiar Mark had to lock himself in the bathroom for a while. Because no-one ever saw Mark Calaway cry.

_Not even himself_, he thought angrily as he blinked back the tears, and drove his fist through the mirror.


End file.
